“Mr. Breen will see you now,” the guard said.
“Great,” Monk said. “When’s he coming down?”
“He’s not,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re going up.”
“It would be better if he came down.”
Stottlemeyer groaned and turned to the guard. “Could you ask Mr. Breen if he’d mind meeting us for a cup of coffee in the lobby? My treat.”
The guard made the call, spoke for a moment, then hung up. “Mr. Breen is very busy and can’t leave the office at this time. If you want to see him, you need to go to his office.”
“I tried, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “So let’s go.”
We headed for the elevators, but Monk dragged behind. “I have an idea. Let’s take the stairs.”
“Thirty floors?” I said.
“It’ll be fun.”
“It’ll be fatal,” Stottlemeyer said. “I can talk to Breen without you. You really don’t need to be there.”
“I want to be there,” Monk said.
“I’m taking the elevator,” Stottlemeyer said. “Are you coming or not?”
I looked at Monk. He looked at the elevator, took a deep breath, and nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
The three of us got into the elevator. Stottlemeyer hit the button for the thirtieth floor. The doors closed. Monk covered his finger with his sleeve and hit the button for the second floor. And then the fourth. And then the sixth. He hit the button for every other floor all the way up to the thirtieth.
Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and sighed.
The instant the doors opened on the second floor, Monk stepped out, took several deep breaths, then came back in.
“I think this is going very well,” he said.
On the fourth floor he burst out with a cry, startling the people in the waiting room at the Crocker Advertising Agency.
“It’s a living hell,” he told them.
Monk took several hungry breaths of air and then leaped back into the elevator as if he were plunging into deep water.
The instant the elevator reached the sixth floor, he threw himself out into the lobby of Ernst, Throck, and Fillburton, Attorneys at Law, and screamed something about the “injustice and inhumanity” of it all.
By the eighth, Stottlemeyer and I were resigned to our fate, leaning against the handrails and doing our best to relax. We played Tetris on Stottlemeyer’s cell phone screen while Monk paced, and groaned, and cried, and pulled at the imaginary leeches in his hair.
Stopping at every other floor, it took us forty minutes to reach Breen’s office on the thirtieth. I won six games and Stottlemeyer won eight, but he’s had a lot more practice, working on his technique during stakeouts. When the elevator doors opened, Monk staggered out, gasping for air, his face drenched with sweat, and collapsed onto the black leather couch in the waiting room.
“Sweet Mother of God,” he whined. “It’s finally over.”
I gave him a bottle of Sierra Springs water from my purse—which, by the way, is about the size of the baby bag I lugged around when Julie was an infant. It’s full of water, Wet Ones, Baggies, even some Wheat Thins in case he gets hungry. The only thing I’m not carrying with me that I carried then are diapers.
Stottlemeyer went up to the receptionist, a disarmingly attractive Asian woman who sat behind a sweeping desk that made her look like the anchorwoman on the eleven-o’clock news. Except that the breathtaking view of the city behind her wasn’t a backdrop; it was the real thing.
“Captain Stottlemeyer, Adrian Monk, and Natalie Teeger to see Mr. Breen,” he said.
“We were expecting you to be here almost an hour ago,” she said.
“So were we,” he said.
Monk guzzled the water and tossed the empty bottle over his shoulder. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and then tossed that, too.
“Going down will be much easier,” I said reassuringly.
“Yeah, because I’ll be taking the stairs.”
The receptionist spoke up. “Mr. Breen will see you now.”
She gestured toward a massive set of double doors that reminded me of the gates to the Emerald City of Oz, only without the munchkin guard. Breen had an Asian supermodel instead, which I’m pretty sure the wizard also would have preferred.
The doors slid open on their own as we approached, which was intimidating. Sure, the doors at Wal-Mart do the same thing, but somehow it’s different when you aren’t pushing a shopping cart.
And there, in a cavernous office of glass and mahogany and stainless steel, stood real-estate developer Lucas Breen, his arms outstretched, a welcoming smile on his face, his capped teeth gleaming like polished ivory.
10
Mr. Monk Buys Some Flowers
Everything about Lucas Breen’s office screamed money and power. His floor-to-ceiling windows offered a commanding view of the city and the bay. The intricately detailed models of his most architecturally daring office towers were dramatically lit and displayed on marble stands. The designer furniture was arranged like sculptures. There were pictures on the wall of him and his gorgeous, bejeweled wife shaking hands with presidents, kings, movie stars, and local politicians.
And even if Breen’s office didn’t scream money and power, his handmade jacket, monogrammed shirt, elegant watch, and expensive shoes certainly did. I’d wow you with the brand names, but my fashion and jewelry expertise doesn’t extend beyond what you can find at Mervyn’s, JCPenney, and Target.
Breen was in his forties, remarkably fit, and naturally tanned—the kind of body and rich tan that comes from playing tennis on your Marin County estate, lazing around on yachts in the Caribbean, and having tantric sex.
Okay, I don’t know about the tantric sex part, but he looked like the type who would brag that he was having it even if he weren’t.
“Thank you for making the time to see us, Mr. Breen,” Stottlemeyer said, shaking the developer’s hand.
“My pleasure, Captain. I’m pleased to do anything I can to assist the San Francisco Police Department,” Breen said. “That’s why I’m so honored to be a member of the Police Commission.”
You’ve got to admire how Breen got that in there so quickly, as if Stottlemeyer didn’t already know that the chief of police and the department answer to Breen’s oversight committee.
“You must be Adrian Monk. I’ve been an admirer of yours for some time.” Breen offered his hand to Monk, who shook it, then immediately turned to me for a wipe. “Please, Mr. Monk, allow me.”
Breen took a disinfectant wipe from his pocket and gave it to Monk, who scrutinized the package. It was a Magic Fresh.
“No, thank you,” Monk said.
“It’s a moist towelette,” Breen said.
“It’s a Magic Fresh.”
“They’re all the same.”
“That’s like saying all corn flakes are the same,” Monk said.
“They are.”
“I prefer Wet Ones,” Monk said, and held his hand out to me. I gave him a package. “I don’t trust anything with magic in it.”
Breen forced a smile and tossed the package on his desk. Somebody was going to be fired for not providing
